


Your Body is mocking you, and your Mind is your own Cage.

by Ice20



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Depression, Erectile Dysfunction, Mental Instability, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sad, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Pity, depressed!Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-03-25 00:30:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3789895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ice20/pseuds/Ice20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No, Steve had done nothing, he had nothing to be sorry for, apart from mocking him with his brand new, perfect body in a way that somehow hurt more than the chair had done."</p><p>Bucky has had, comprehensively, a lot of issues since the day he and Steve met again after the events in DC. There is PTSD, depression, anxiety... and yet, he has managed to survive all that. So how comes something as stupid as a morning wood breaks him once and for all?<br/>... Because we all have our breaking point, and Bucky is no difference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone!  
> I sincerely hope you like this ficlet, which I wrote tonight in a hurry.  
> It was meant to be completely different, shameless smut and all... yet this came out! Well, I hope you will enjoy it anyway.
> 
> I am not a native English speaker, so please forgive me for any mistake you will find. This work is not beta-ed, and I did my best to proof-read it a couple of times and correct as many typos I could find.
> 
> Please read the tags before reading this.

Bucky woke up in the intimacy of Steve's bedroom, the blonde's muscular arms holding him in a tight, warm embrace, and the fluffy comforter wrapped around him securely. It was... cozy, Bucky thought, in a way that made him smile.

It had become a habit, in the course of the last few months, for Steve and him to spend their nights together, sharing a bed, cuddling, and most of all, sleeping. They had noticed how much better Bucky slept, when there were Steve's arms around his chest and his scent in his nostrils to gently lull him into sleep; there were far less nightmares that awoke him screaming himself hoarse in the middle of the night.

And Steve didn't mind it the least bit. If all, Bucky thought that he had been happy to share a bed with him once again, even if they were just sleeping and touching in the most innocent way possible – far different from what he knew, but didn't recall, had happened before the war. They both slept better, when they were together.

Steve's presence behind him was warm and solid, his broad chest adhering to Bucky's back perfectly, the tip of his nose buried in the nest of his messed long hair, as always. All this was familiar by now and spoke of safety, making him feel reassured and calm when he opened his eyes in the darkness of the room.

Today, thought, something was deeply different.

As he opened his eyes and lay there, taking in the sound of Steve's even breathing and all the familiar, muffled noises coming from the rest of the tower, he felt something he had missed so far. Bucky awoke with the sensation of Steve's boner pressing against the small of his back.

He knew it was just a morning wood – a common reaction of the male body to the prolonged period of REM sleep in the morning as well as the inflow of a great quantity of blood to that particular body area – and he also knew it usually goes away within minutes after awakening, if not taken care of. Hydra may have taken away all his personal memories, his most beloved and intimate ones, but a basic knowledge of human biology had only been seen as appropriate for him, to finish his missions as smoothly and deadly as possible.

But the point right now was that, having Steve subconsciously rubbing his engorged dick against him made Bucky suddenly aware of the fact that, since he had met the blonde at the Smithsonian all those months ago, he had never experienced an erection, himself. That had not really actually worried Bucky, so far. A lot of things he couldn't really understand had happened to him, so it was probably normal that other familiar ones had not happened yet, as counterbalance. He hadn't really thought about it too much, to be honest. Sex was something that had never crossed his mind, lately.

Nevertheless, right now, for the first time he wondered if he would ever experience something like that again, sooner or later. Something as normal as a morning wood. In his files, there was no indication of any operation that had involved his genitalia nor of anything else that had been done to him and that prevented him from being able to have an erection, but still, that meant very little.

The files were partial and incomplete, the horrors described in there were only a part of all the tortures he had actually been subjected to – he knew it, even if he couldn't remember them – and he was aware that there were a myriad of reasons, apart from surgical ones, that could be responsible for his lack of interest in sex and anything related to it. Deep stress, a state of everpresent anxiety that never left him, psychological factors, the PTSD he had been told to be suffering from... they were all plausible causes.

And still, it somehow upset him in a strange way, to feel his flesh lying limp between his legs, just another – _damaged_ , a part of his brain thought – appendage of him, especially if compared to Steve's huge one currently pushing against his clothed skin.

Bucky huffed in annoyance, his metal fingers clenching and unclenching on the mattress, the gears whizzing softly, a metallic warning that his temper was flaring, which wasn't unusual for him these days. He felt a sudden, irrational irritation cascading on him, and immediately shifted his body in Steve's arms – that now felt constricting, just another cause of annoyance – and pulled his back away from the boner that had only managed to break his peaceful morning routine, reminding him again that he was just a joke, a damaged cripple.

A damaged cripple who couldn't even get it up.

He let out a frustrated groan and quite indelicately pushed Steve's arms away, freeing himself from their grip, unable to lay there one more second. What had been a warm nest was now an insufferable cage. The strong body that had felt so much like a shield from the external world, was now laughing at him, mocking him ruthlessly.

From behind him came the sleepy and startle voice of the blonde.

“Buck? What's goin' on?” Steve mumbled, his accent thick with sleep, eyes still closed.

“Nothing,” he growled. Rolling to the edge of the mattress, he got up. “Go back to sleep, Steve”

The blonde crooked one of his eyes open, and regarded him with a wary look. “You okay?”

Bucky felt something inside him snap. He snarled, loudly, like a dog, the sound leaving his lips feral, the one of a wild animal feeling trapped, and Bucky found himself trembling and shaking from head to toe with shame and rage and frustration and annoyance and delusion and self-loath.

“I told you I'm fine, Goddammit! Leave me alone!” he shouted, then hurriedly left the room slamming the door behind him.

He ran into the corridor, where the light of the sun, not blocked by the heavy curtains like it had been in the pleasant darkness of the room, hit him with full force. But at least the discomfort it caused was enough to take his mind away from the sound of Steve's voice calling after him, startled and apprehensive for his unexpected breakdown; though nothing could stop his chest from feeling strangely tight because of the discomfort he had caused to the blonde.

Bucky opened the door of his own bedroom, which he never used to sleep anymore but still contained his scarce belongings, and closed it behind him. With his back against the wood, he slid down until he was sitting on the floor, barefoot and cold, shivers running down his spine, feeling alone in a way he hadn't felt in a long long time. Knees up under his chin and arms around them, he dropped his head to hide his face between his knees, and felt himself break a bit more.

Being held in a prison cell for three months as his programming broke before he was released with Steve as his caretaker, having to readjust to social interactions once again, recalling some of his worst memories, being blamed by the public opinion for what he had done and cursed by the families he had destroyed, facing heart-wrenching therapy sessions twice a week, having to re-build his relationship with Steve from ashes, it had all been extremely difficult and painful. There had been long sleepless nights and days filled with tears, mornings spent curled up in a corner of the bathroom as Natasha tried to coax him out and evenings curled up in a corner of the sofa with his head on Clint's leg, pretending he wasn't overhearing Sam and Steve talking on the phone about him, about how damaged he was.

But this... this was a paradox. None of that had broken him, and a simple erectile dysfunction was now doing it. Bucky knew it was his distorted perspective that made him perceive things bigger than they were, his depression that caused him to see insurmountable problems that weren't even there in the first place. After all, his therapist had explained to him, time and time again, that sometimes, the best thing he could do was stop everything he was doing, pause, take deep breaths, and then face the problem again: he would find new perspectives and solutions.

But right now he was too far gone to even do it. His mind was full of dark thoughts, how useless he was, how helpless; a shame for Steve, for his friends, for what little of is family there still was left – some grand-nephews that just wanted his autograph and a selfie with him to show their friends, and nothing more. He could hear them laughing, all of them, in his head; grinning, looking at him with a derisive light in their eyes, pointing at him.

This little, stupid issue was breaking him down, like none of the other shit that had happened to him had, so far.

From the other side of the door, he heard the noises Steve was making, hastily putting on a sweatshirt and a pair of socks, and then hurriedly walking right in front of his bedroom door. There, the steps stopped, and Bucky heard the weight of the blonde's body resting against the door, right behind him, with that single, tiny barrier made of wood separating them.

“Bucky,” Steve's voice came, hesitant. “Whatever I did, I'm sorry. I didn't want to upset you.”

Bucky closed his eyes at those words that felt like knives stabbing him in the heart, over and over again. Steve had done nothing, it was all his fault. It was his body, after all, that was unable to do something that the majority of fourteen years old boys could feel. It was his mind that had pointed out how huge Steve's erection had been, comparing it then to the limp flesh of his flaccid penis. It was his fears that had scared him, at the thought of never being able to be normal in the easiest way a man was anymore.

And still, he had managed to wound Steve again, with his behavior, his paranoia.

No, Steve had done nothing, he had nothing to be sorry for, apart from mocking him with his brand new, perfect body in a way that somehow hurt more than the chair had done.

“Please at least tell me you're okay, Buck,” the blonde pleaded, sincerely worried – and yes, Bucky knew he was sincere, he had no doubt about it.

And still, he didn't answer, because no, he was not okay, and no, he didn't want to have anything to do with Steve right now. He pushed his hands over his ears to stop the sound of that ever-patient, caring voice calling him.

A tear fell down his cheek as the first sob escaped his lips.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> First of all, I want to say a big THANK YOU to all the kind souls who left me kudos and comments. It was primarily your encouragement and support that prompted me to write this second chapter, which I hope will satisfy your requests.
> 
> As usual, it's unbeta-ed, so all mistakes are mine. Today I'm in a hurry so I proof read it just once, sorry.
> 
> Please let me know what you think. Your opinions and support really make my day!

It's been two weeks. Two whole weeks since _that_ morning and _that_ realization happened.

It's been two weeks of sleepless nights and restless days.

The nights, Bucky spent alone in his bedroom, the one he hadn't been using for months, instead preferring Steve's – warmer, safer, cozier. He spent his nights laying in the bed, wide awake, his eyes looking at the ceiling over him, but not really seeing it. The minutes ticked by, slowly, and when the first lights of the new day filtered into the room, he would get up, even more exhausted than he had been the previous night.

He couldn't sleep, when he was alone. His thoughts wouldn't leave him be, and nobody was there to keep them at bay. He knew that for Steve, it was just the same. But somehow, he couldn't care.

Since what had happened, he could barely stand looking at Steve at all. The blonde was... destroyed, by his behavior. Bucky knew he was struggling to understand what had happened _that_ morning, he knew Steve was blaming himself for whatever it was that had spooked Bucky, just like he knew the blonde had been silently crying during the little hours of the nights. He knew it, because he had been awake and his hearing was quite enhanced.

He was always patient, though. Steve tried to do his best, as he had always done before, and he never yelled at him out of frustration, never once. Sometimes, Bucky thought it would have been better. But whatever. Steve would have to scream his new strong lungs out in order to as much as scratch the wall of silence and insensitivity that that surrounded him.

Bucky didn't really care about Steve and the bags under his blue eyes, because he couldn't force himself to feel nothing at all. His indifference wasn't on purpose, God forbid, but it ran so deeply into him, that he didn't have the strength to shake it away.

Sometimes, during the nights, though, some level of awareness came back to him. Those times, he felt tears in his eyes as a sense of guilt pervaded him. But it was never enough to bring his apathetic self to give a real shit about it. Especially not during the days.

Bucky's depression had become definitely deeper and more alarming. He knew it was depression, but everything felt so distant and numbed that the word felt just like a clinical diagnosis and nothing more.

He had no doubt his therapist had seen his worsening condition, too, the very first time they had met after _that_ morning. That's why he hadn't been surprised at all by the fact that they had increased the number of their meetings from two every week to four. And he hadn't been surprised by his own lack of motivation to talk about what was eating him from the inside. Since _that_ had happened, he had spoken very little.

Some nights, every few days, he managed to fall asleep. Never before one o'clock, and never for a lot of hours. He either was awoken by his body shaking silently after just another nightmare, with tears falling down his cheeks, or by his body being shaken by Steve's strong arms, the blonde having been awoken by his screams.

The worried eyes staring at him those nights made him want to curl up into a small ball, hide underneath the warm comforter, and stay there until he died. Sometimes, he thought it would be for the better. Other times, he just cursed his own weakness – but that only happened when he could bring himself to think clearly and care a bit, which wasn't that often.

The days passed in a similar blur. Much like it happened during the dark hours of the nights, Bucky would find himself lost, staring at the walls without seeing them, or at the tv screen without any idea of the program that was being transmitted. Sometimes Steve told him something, but Bucky couldn't really hear him. More often than not, he found himself skipping meals and losing the sense of time completely. One moment, it was nine in the morning. A blink of the eyes, and it was the early hours of the afternoon, and Steve was looking at him with worry written all over his face, asking him – probably not for the first time – if he wanted to at least eat a soup.

The first few days after _that_ morning, Bucky had refused to leave his bedroom. Not even Steve calling Natasha and asking for her help, nor Clint and his jokes, or Tony and his robots, had been able to coax him to come out. And Steve had tried all three solutions, repeatedly, when he had understood his own words were doing nothing to improve the situation. In the end, he had called his therapist, who had come over and effectively convinced him that, whatever the problem was, it wasn't insurmountable.

“There is a solution for every problem, James. You just have to find the one that works for you; and I know it is not easy, but you can do it, with my help, as well as Steve's and all your friends. They all support you, James,” she had said in a soothing voice that somehow had managed to go beyond the barrier of the closed door and bring him calmness, consolation and encouragement.

Her support had helped him leave the room for the first time in four days. “This is very good, James. Really, really good. We are all proud of you,” she had told him, as they walked together towards the living room.

It was empty, but someone was in the kitchen. At least two people, judging by the shushed conversation he could pick up. Bucky had no doubt it were Steve and Sam – the counselor being there to help Steve and prevent him from doing something stupid as soon as Bucky put foot out of his room.

His therapist had made him promise to call her if he felt like he needed it, any time, day or night. Then she had told him she expected to see him the next day in her office, and she had left. Bucky had forced himself to go to the appointment and not flee the room as soon as Steve and Sam joined him.

Steve's first words had been _I'm sorry, Bucky. Whatever it was I did, I'm sorry. You scared me to dead, pal, please don't do it again_. Sam had touched his forearm and squeezed gently, a silent invitation to stop before he went to far and Bucky left again. But Bucky had already zoned out by that point.

Since that morning, Steve had done his best to be there and support him in non-invasive, non-excessive ways – probably following the advices Sam had given him to the last word – but nothing had been able to shake Bucky.

After the first week, he had allowed Natasha and Clint to see him. Not Tony. Tony was a bit too much, he had always been.

By the look the redhead gave him, Bucky knew the exhaustion on Steve's face was reflected on his own. If the almost imperceptible way her eyes had widened hadn't been clue enough, Clint's mouth hanging open had definitely made it clear. They had done their best to distract him, trying to interact with him and make him smile. They really had, but it had not been enough. Far from it.

Because when Bucky looked at them and saw the easy camaraderie there, he couldn't help but wonder if that was what normal people had, the kind of relationship he would never have with anyone. He asked himself if they would be disgusted, knowing he wasn't even a real man, if they would be ashamed of being his friends, or if they would laugh at him.

As paranoid as his mind was, he couldn't really believe they would. But just the doubt was enough to have him cry in front of them, Natasha talking to him softly in Russian, and Clint draping an arm over his shoulder. That's when he realized he had begun crying at all. He had zoned out, lost in his thoughts, and his brain had not registered the tears gathering in his eyes and falling down his face.

Now, two weeks after _that_ mess, Bucky was looking at his reflection in the mirror. It was something he had avoided, in the past couple of weeks. He couldn't stand his sight and had punched at least four mirrors. Today was different, though.

Today, he was looking into his own eyes, taking in his appearance. He was pale, and thinner than before. His hair was unkempt and too long, way too similar to the haircut he had had during his captivity. Stubble covered his chin, a couple of days old.

What hit him the most, though, were the eyes. They were bright red, with angry bruises underneath them. Irritated by his tears and the lack of sleep. The skin felt too tight with the sensation of dried tears covering it.

He had cried during his hour of therapy. That wasn't a news, he had cried a lot of times, before. But today, he had told his therapist what was eating him up, finally finding the courage to confess her what was too painful to tell Steve – Steve, poor Steve, who was killing his knuckles in the gym, making them bleed breaking bag after bag without wearing the gloves.

He didn't know the exact words he had used, just that he had said it, because his therapist's hand was suddenly resting on his shoulder, and she was looking at him in the eyes, face kind and composed and _open and sincere_.

“I'm so proud of you, James. I am very proud and very grateful for you opening up to me, and I want you to know it,” she had told him.

There was no trace of disgust in her voice, no embarrass or pity for the poor broken man who couldn't have an erection ever if he wanted to. Because, yes, he had tried just the previous night, for the first time since _that_ morning.

Locked in his room, lying on his bed, he had thought about sex with women, and men, and sex toys, kinky positions, handcuffs, bondage, beads and vibrators. He had thought about pleasure mixed with pain and the kind of secret dirty fantasies everyone has but never confesses. He had thought about that all, with no reaction at all. And it had not surprised him. If all, it had mortified him a bit more, and he had resigned himself to it.

He couldn't get it up, that was it.

So that morning, he had confessed it to the therapist. The secret hope that he would get magically better had left him. He was broken, it was time to face the truth and accept it. His therapist had told him that this wasn't the truth and he knew it, that in the due time he would be able to see it for himself, but for now, even this was a small step towards recovery, which was good. As small as it was, it was an improvement, and it was important.

So now, alone in the apartment – Steve was out grocery shopping, Bucky hadn't seen him on his return – Bucky looked at his pathetic self looking back at him from the mirror. He looked at himself, and thought that he didn't want to look so pathetic anymore.

He reasoned that he already knew he was just a sad, pathetic excuse of a man, but other people didn't need to see it, too. He thought it was time to shave and cut his hair a bit. And he told himself it was time to open up to Steve, too. It was only fair.

All of a sudden, Bucky found himself caring, for the first time, about the other's feelings, in a way he hadn't been able to do in the past couple of weeks. He found himself hurting at the mere thought of how painful and confusing it must havebeen for Steve. He found himself feeling the empathy he had lacked of before.

He thought that his therapist had been proud of his improvement, and so would be Steve, and he reassured himself that the blonde would just be disgusted by him, but he probably wouldn't reproach him or be cruel about it. Steve wasn't the kind of guy who would laugh in his face and make tactless jokes; Steve was the kind of guy who would accompany him to doctor's appointments and just hug him tight and make him feel warm again.

When he heard the door of the apartment open and the sound of plastic bags being put on the table, he got into the living room and then walked silently towards the kitchen. There, leaning on the door-frame, he took in Steve's presence, his shoulders slightly hunched and the sadness he seemed to be radiating.

He took in a deep breath, steadying himself like his therapist had prepared him to do, thinking about the autogenous training she had taught him months ago, and released it slowly.

“Hey, punk,” he called softly.

The words hadn't even left his mouth, that Steve was already hugging him like there was no tomorrow, face buried in the crook of his neck and wetness soaking his skin.

Bucky thought that if Steve could cry without shame, maybe he could tell him what was wrong without stutter and shake because of the anxiety.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Steve would never be disgusted by Bucky, nor would the rest of the Avengers. But don't forget that Bucky's POV is quite distorted, and most of all, don't forget that it takes time, a lot of time, to get better, to heal and see things for what they really are. 
> 
> Recovery isn't always quick and smooth, and recovery from depression is, in my experience, made of small steps forward and, from time to time, small steps backwards. It's more difficult to heal from a mental wound than from a physical one. 
> 
> For what has been my experience, I felt like I was in a bubble for a very long time. I wanted to cry and sleep and be alone (but at the same time, I didn't want to be really alone) and do nothing else, even if it was hurting the people I love the most. I just couldn't see it, I was too focused on myself and my own pain. Maybe you have to be selfish to be so depressed, I don't really know.
> 
> The point is, it takes time to find your real self once again. Bucky is just at the beginning.
> 
> But he will get better, he is strong.
> 
> (And also no, I don't think a man is defined by his ability to have sex or an erection, and I don't think he is broken if he doesn't, but always remember, this is Bucky's POV!)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody!
> 
> I'm so happy to be finally posting this chapter. It turned out to be different from what I was expecting it to be... maybe it's a bit more romantic and cheesy than I thought, but I decided to post it anyway. It gave me hope...
> 
> To all of you, who have commented and left kudos, thank you! Thank you so much. I'm sorry you had to wait so long, but May was a long and tiring month, and - let's face it - this fic was born as a one-shot, and has become so much more! I had no plans to continue it, but thanks to your encouragement, here we are.
> 
> As always, mind the tags for this fic, please.
> 
> There is no beta, and I'm not a native English speaker - so forgive me for any grammar mistake you will find.
> 
> I hope you will like this chapter.

The talk to Steve goes as well as one could have expected for Bucky.

After a hug that is too tight and too long, but too short at the same time, they both sit at the table, Steve silently and patiently looking at him, giving him all the time he needs to talk. The blonde doesn't push him, but Bucky can see the anxiety hiding behind the outstretched skin that seems too stiff around his mouth, and in the forcefully relaxed lines of his face. It hurts to see all that worry on Steve's face, especially knowing he is the cause of it all.

So Bucky casts his eyes low, looking at the pristine surface of the tabletop. He takes a deep breath, and opens his mouth, and words different from the ones he had carefully practiced in his head slip out of his lips. He tells Steve everything, about what had happened _that_ morning, and so much more.

He confesses his panic, how freaked out he had been at the feeling of Steve's morning wood pressing, firm and hot, against the small of his back; he tells him that that had been the first time he had actually realized something was wrong with him, something was amiss. He admits the shame he had felt for the first time admitting to himself that his body was -once again - wrong, that his sexual-drive wasn't working, that he couldn't feel arousal or excitement anymore.

He tells Steve how ashamed he had felt, how incomplete and once more abused, how he had despised himself and Hydra for what they had done to him, but also Steve, how much he had despised Steve, who was perfect and patient and calm and who had shown him so much love and affection so far, and _what if he didn't want him around anymore? What if his freak of a_ _n old-lover-for-now-turned-into-just-_ _best-friend was so damaged he couldn't get it up anymore? Was Steve ashamed of him, now that he knew?_ _What if he didn't want Bucky anymore?_ _Did he think Bucky was just a joke? Bucky would understand him if he was going to laugh at him: who wouldn't?_

As Bucky talks, a swollen river of words coming out of his mouth, his brain is panic-struck, trying to command his lips to seal and not to let anymore words escape. Some part of his mind points out that Steve is _not_ laughing at him and his inability to get it up, so there is _no_ need to panic; but the paranoid part of his brain is sneakingly humming in fake delight how much Steve is surely enjoying all this, and _fuck, what if it's true? What is the blonde will really see him as a freak from now on? What if -_

“Buck,” he hears Steve worried voice call for him. He feels big, warm hands cupping his cheek and his neck, tenderly and carefully, but also firmly. “I need you to take a deep breath for me, buddy. Can you do that?” he blonde asks; he's crouching in front of him, _on the floor, when did he get on the damn floor?_.

Bucky realizes all of a sudden that he's not breathing. His breath is stuck somewhere in between his throat and his lungs, not coming out, not getting in. His eyes are unfocused, full of unleashed tears that cloud his vision, and his skin feels numb on his face and his hands, itching like ten thousand needles are pricking it.

_Anxiety attack_ , his brain tells his. This is an anxiety attack. It's not the first time he's had one of them, it's the reason why he cannot breathe and his skin feels wrong.

_Also, dissociation_. That's why he was unable to realize what was happening in the first place.

He wonders how much he's actually been able to tell Steve. Has he really just confessed everything to his best friend, or does he have to do it all over again? He cannot even begin to think about it, his throat closing once again...

Steve snaps his fingers in font of his eyes.

“Buck, focus, buddy. Stay with me, okay? It's alright, shush, Buck, it's okay,” Steve murmurs, rocking them both gently, back and forth, back and forth, in a movement that soothes him and at the same time grounds him.

He can feel Steve's right hand still gently caressing his cheek, the fingertips warm against his cool, sweaty skin. He leans into the touch, and the blonde shifts his weight a little, resting with his back against the wall nearby the table, pulling Bucky in his lap.

A strong, muscled arm encircles his body and holds him firmly, pressing his chest flush against Steve's, keeping them close together as the blonde keeps murmuring quietly, grounding and pacifying. The hand on his cheek applies some pressure and prompts his to lay his head on Steve's shoulder, Bucky's nose pressed into the hot skin of his neck, inhaling the familiar and oh so missed scent, and Steve's mouth finds the top of his head and kisses him on his brown hair.

“Thank you Bucky,” the blonde whispers reverently as he feels the brunet's body relaxing against his.

Bucky makes a questioning sound, too tired to form coherent words. Anxiety attacks have the unpleasant effect of making him feel lethargic and drained of all energy.

“Thank you for telling me,” Steve explains, his hand leaving Bucky's cheek to grab his flesh and bone hand so gently, and raising it to his mouth to press a tender kiss on his palm, then each one on his knuckles, and his fingertips.

It tickles a bit, and Bucky feels himself smile softly against Steve's neck, despite his fears, despite the fact that now Steve knows. Bucky's mouth twitch and extends in a small smile, one he is sure the blonde can feel against his skin.

“I love you no matter what, Bucky. I love you as a friend, as a brother, and so much more. And I will always love you, no matter what,” the blonde murmurs, his arm hugging him a bit more tightly.

Bucky feels relieved and joyful at the same time, euphoric in a way he's not felt in a very, very long time, but he's also fearful, because Steve's promise is a good one, and Steve is good at keeping promises, yes, but someday he may grow tired of the creep Bucky is, he may grow tired of having someone as broken and useless as him around, and them what will happen?

“I can hear you freaking out again, Bucky. Stop it. Please. I love you, Bucky, and I don't want anything more than what you are comfortable to give me. I never will,” Steve says, voice sincere but edging on panic, like he's afraid, too. “Just... just be here Bucky. With me. Don't leave me, okay? Promise me you won't crawl back inside your head and cut me out, not if we can have an honest talk about it before. Please?”

Bucky considers it for a minute. He thinks about how much it hurt him, staying away from Steve for the previous weeks, and he thinks about how much Steve was wounded by his behavior. He remembers the sobs he heard at night coming from his room, and the tears that he could see in those blue eyes every day.

And he realizes that, no, Steve is right, maybe talking would have been a much better idea, maybe they could have understood together what was wrong before it all became such a big mess. Maybe he should have had more faith in his best friend, because he's not laughing at him and mocking him, instead he's holding him like Bucky really means the life for Steve.

He pulls back, raising his head from Steve's shoulder. The blonde lets him.

Bucky looks at him, taking in the trembling smile on his lips, the tears on his cheeks, and the redness of his eyes. Steve looks devastated and beautiful at the same time, hopeful and happy. His eyes are clear, soft, a warm light brightening them. His eyes look earnest.

Maybe Bucky really means the life for Steve, as incomplete as broken as he is. Maybe he really does.

Bucky smiles, resting his head on Steve's shoulder once again. They stay like that for a very long time, and Bucky knows – for sure – that it's one of the best sensations he has ever felt.

He can love Steve, without it being physical, just as much and as hard as Steve told to love him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From personal experience, I can tell you I have had a few anxiety attacks. Some of them were less severe than others. Sometimes it happens when I drive - and it's scary, trust me. The worst one, though, was so severe that I couldn't feel sensations in my legs and arms anymore, my fingers had gone numb and so had my facial muscles, and the sensation was like thousands of needles pricking my skin - you know, like when you fall asleep with your arms under your body, and you wake up and they are numb but they hurt at the same time? Yeah, something similar to that...
> 
> Don't forget Bucky has a thousand issues, suffers from anxiety disorder and depression, and this story is written from his pov.
> 
> There is hope for him, though. There is so much hope...

**Author's Note:**

> So, clearly Bucky is suffering from quite a severe case of depression. His self-esteem is, comprehensively, incredibly low, and his prespective is distorted by his mental health problems. This issue is what finally broke him. We all have a breaking point, and not always a big tragedy is what hurts you the most. Sometimes, it's something little, something stupid...
> 
> I can confirm you, from my personal experience, that this is what actually happens to you when you're suffering from depression or low moods. Even the smallest issues become big, insurmountable problems, and facing them is seen as impossible. So even something stupid, like getting out of the bed in the morning, or leaving the house, becomes an inhuman task.  
> Let alone something as delicate for males as erectile dysfunction, that can be cured, sure, but for Bucky, it seems shameful and he feels like his own body is betraying him, and most af all, like Steve's one if laughing at him. And this hurt.  
> Believe me, it does.
> 
> A wise woman who has helped me a lot, told me to unplug, when it all becomes to much, to take a deep breath, think of something else, relax, and then approach the problm once again: it actually works.
> 
>  
> 
> Leave me kudos and reviews, to let me know what you think :)
> 
> You are always more than welcomed to come and talk to me on my tumblr! [IceDrifter](http://www.icedrifter.tumblr.com)


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